Asylum - 13 Tales of Terror (20 page)
“Apparently you’re not booked in until tomorrow sir, the 19
th.
”
“Yes the 19
th
, that’s today I think you’ll find.” Donald said snippily.
“Sorry Mr. Carragher, but today’s the 18
th.
”
Donald opened his mouth to give the girl a piece of his mind when he suddenly realised that she was right, it was the 18
th
. “Oh dear,” was all he could manage. “What about the electricity?”
“It comes on after midnight tonight Mr. Carragher, I would get the supply switched on but it’s too late for tonight.”
“Well, that will have to do then.” Donald said managing to sound magnanimous even though he was actually in the wrong and now feeling pretty stupid.
He hung up the phone and put the gun away. His senses were racing and his hands were trembling and all because apparently he couldn’t read a calendar. Disgusted with himself he snatched his bags up again and stormed into the house, refusing to be intimidated by an empty house.
The cottage was cold and felt damp as though unused for some time. Donald dumped his bags and headed for the kitchen to turn on the central heating, before remembering that there was no power. He grumpily stomped back into the lounge area, thankfully there was a fire laid in the fireplace. He lit the twisted paper under the kindling quickly and stood back as the flames licked around the wood and slowly started to warm the room. Donald figured that he could spend a night in front of a warm fireplace and wait for the power to come on tomorrow. He grabbed a candle from the mantelpiece and lit it with the dancing flames. He then used the lit candle to light the others dotted around the room, and soon the lounge was flickering with subtle light. Donald sat down in front of the now roaring fire and placed a couple of logs on it that were stacked neatly to the side. He held his hands up to the flames and was grateful for the heat as it coursed through his chilled body. He was feeling relaxed and sleepy for the first time in what seemed like forever. His eyes drooped as sleep drifted towards him. The cottage was deathly silent and only the fitful wind outside provided any soundtrack.
The night suddenly exploded into life as the shattering crash of glass was swiftly followed by the ear piercing wail of his car alarm. Donald snatched out the Browning and charged to the front door. He almost reached it before his natural instincts took over and he skidded to a halt. He began backing away from the now open front door. The yellow flashing lights of his car illuminated the black night as they danced in tune with the alarm. A window at the rear of the house suddenly smashed, Donald span around with the shaking gun out in front of him.
“Major,” a chilling voice called out in the night. “Help me Major,” the voice spoke weakly and in great pain. “Please Major, I’m hurt bad, please help me.”
“Who are you?” Donald screamed.
“I need your help Major, I’m in so much pain, so much pain,” the voice cried.
“What do you want from me?” Donald sobbed.
“I want you to show me what a hero you are Major, you are a hero aren’t you? I mean you’ve got that medal to prove it right?” The voice laughed. “Show me, SHOW ME WHAT A HERO YOU ARE!”
Donald fired the pistol into the rear of the house at where the voice seemed to be coming from.
“Hahahahahaha,” the voice cackled, “Do you really think that you can hurt me Hummingbird? I’ve been shot before, didn’t trouble me none.”
“Leave me alone, LEAVE ME ALONE!” Donald screamed as he fired a few more rounds into the darkness.
“Hummingbird, Hummingbird,” the voice sang, now from nearer the front of the house.
Donald collapsed to his knees, mentally and physically exhausted, “Hoffman?” He whispered, “Leave me alone,” he whimpered, “Just leave me alone.”
“Oh, I’m not done with you yet Hummingbird, not by a long stretch.”
“What do you want?” Donald begged as a dark figure moved into the doorway.
“I want you to tell everyone the truth about that night. I want the world to know just what a real hero you are,” the voice laughed. “You may have got all those other fools believing your lies, but not me Hummingbird, not me.”
“What are you?” Donald pleaded, “Are you alive? Are you dead? Is this my punishment?”
Hoffman stood rock still and only radiated hatred. “I am more than you could ever imagine.”
Donald looked up at the shadow. The figure was framed by the flashing light of the car alarm behind, and the only thing visible was a shock of bright red hair. Donald raised the Browning, praying that he hadn’t emptied the clip.
“You going to shoot me Hummingbird, again?” Hoffman laughed, “I don’t believe that you have the stones for it my boy, not when you are looking into the eyes of the enemy, not when you have to look upon my face.”
Donald closed his eyes and pulled the trigger, the explosion was deafening in the enclosed space. He pulled and pulled until the hammer snapped down on an empty clip. The acidic stench of gunfire filled his nostrils and clung nauseatingly to the back of his throat. Unbelievably Hoffman was now a collapsed shadow lying in the dirt outside of the cottage. Donald stood unsteadily on trembling legs and moved closer to him.
The figure was lying choking with a wet rasp on the path outside. Donald could see three bloody holes punched through Hoffman’s bulky overcoat. This was the closest that he had ever stood next to the figure that had haunted him for the past few weeks. He could suddenly see that the figure was actually smaller than Hoffman had been, shorter and not as broad. He knelt to the dying man and looked closely into his face; whilst there was a strong resemblance, it wasn’t Hoffman.
“Who are you?” Donald snarled; his anger and courage rose now that he was facing a real and incapacitated man.
The man coughed violently and sprayed a fine red mist into the air, “Hoffman,” he managed.
“Bullshit. Hoffman is dead, he died a coward.”
“I’m Captain Thomas Hoffman, Sergeant Robert Hoffman was my brother, and he was no coward.”
“And you think that I’m in some way responsible for your brother’s death?” Donald strived for an air of incredulity.
“I don’t think, I know. I am a doctor my dear Major and when they launched the recovery mission for my brother’s body I went with them,” he coughed again with a dangerously wheezing chest. “I found my brother in amongst the carnage, I brought him back in secret pulling in every favor that I had built up over twenty years in the forces. It was me that carried out the autopsy. He had suffered multiple stab wounds and other assorted abrasions, but he had actually died from gunshot wounds. The only thing was that the weapon used was a Browning 9mm, much like the one that you use.”
Donald stared down at the dying man. He thought back to that night in the ravine. He thought of the hand coming out of the darkness and grabbing him. He thought of his panic and of his firing blindly into the darkness and hearing the body fall and his heart sank. Not only had he left his men to die, he had actually killed one of them himself. His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of wailing sirens rapidly approaching.
“Ah, that will be the police I’ll wager,” Dr Hoffman managed, “I made sure to arrange a little appointment for you, regardless of how this evening played out. I assumed that you would break at some point, we can only hide our true natures for so long Major and your yellow streak is a mile long.”
Donald’s mind raced as his powerful sense of self-preservation struggled for an answer to his predicament. He looked down at the quickly fading doctor, “Wait a minute, you’ll be gone before they get here doc,” he said suddenly smirking, “I can tell them anything that I like.”
“Unless I’ve left a letter waiting to be discovered along with an autopsy report,” Dr Hoffman struggled to say.
I can tell them that you have been harassing me for weeks, blaming me unjustly for the death of your brother, driven mad by grief,” Donald laughed. “I’ve got a bloody Victoria Cross medal, I’m a damn hero, and you’ve got no evidence.”
“Is that right?” Dr Hoffman said, quietly fading.
“Yes it is.” Donald said gleefully. “You may have an autopsy report but nothing to match the bullets to. All I have to do is chuck my Browning away at some point. It’ll be a shame as I do love this gun, it was a present,” he said turning the Browning over in his hands.
“You’ve forgotten something,” Dr Hoffman whispered, “I’ve now got three bullets in my chest that will match my brother’s, and even if you get rid of the gun it will still be registered on file as having belonged to you. My letter exactly details my conclusions, and what exactly are the odds of two brothers dying from the same gun and you being present at both scenes?”
Donald’s expression turned from triumph to horror as the police car skidded to halt in front of him and Dr Hoffman died with a smile on his face.
23.
BLACKWATER HEIGHTS
“I’ve got to ask.” Martin said when they were safely outside of the Major’s room.
“How come Major Carragher there isn’t in a real prison?” Jimmy chuckled.
“Exactly.”
“Well, when you’ve got as much pull as Donald’s father, coupled with the establishment’s embarrassment at having awarded a Victoria Cross Medal to a murderer, it all adds up to a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. The Major is tucked safely away for his own protection and that of others.”
“Didn’t Major Carragher object to being branded a nut and being shut away?” Martin asked in amazement.
“Consider the alternative; a very public trial, facing his peers, humiliation, dragged before the world painted as a coward and a killer. No, no, no, Major Carragher was more than happy to slink away from the limelight in a much more discreet disgrace.”
“Well how long can they keep some of these people in here? I mean surely some of them have to get out at some point?” Martin asked, feeling the claustrophobia of the hospital walls closing in around him.
“Oh I think that we are pretty well stocked for now.” Jimmy said with a neutral smile, “But there’s always room for one more.”
“You know Jimmy, you can be a pretty creepy dude sometimes.” Martin spoke lightly but his joviality fell some way short as Jimmy turned to face him.
“Oh Martin, you have no idea,” Jimmy said as he opened the penultimate door.
24.
DISH OF THE DAY
Zachery Carmine pushed his chair back away from the computer and rubbed his tired eyes. The text on the screen reeked of bitter bile and it was just the way he liked it.
Zachery was forty three; he was around six feet tall, slim, and toned. His hair was a side parted silver sweep that spoke of careful control and grooming. His features were delicate with silvery grey eyes and a smooth hairless facial profile.
Zachery was a food critic for The Globe newspaper, and he wrote a column entitled “What the Fork!” The column was originally intended to be a serious critique of the city’s restaurants and eateries, but Zachery had soon found his niche as a catty barbed reviewer whose readers devoured his insults more hungrily than his considered appraisals. Very wisely as it turned out, Zachery had written his articles without a sidebar image of himself and under the pen name of Ezra Geeks. It had now got to the point where he would no longer be welcomed at any of the city’s establishments, as his pen name at least was now mud. He knew that he had exacting standards that would never be met. His was a palate designed for manna from heaven and his quest was always one of never ending perfection.
He turned back to the screen and reread his latest destruction piece. The Café Noire was the latest in a long line of attempts to provide a modern take on an old theme. Their food was diner fare, but served in a contemporary, almost contemptuous style. It always seemed that the more money people charged the more the restaurant was able to provide a shrug-of-the-shoulders service. Customers seemed to lap up a restaurant that deemed patrons fortunate to pay for the privilege.
In his private life Zachery would have probably tolerated the ambiance and the food; he had in fact added Café Noire to his private and secretive list of places that he would dare to eat off duty. On duty however, his job was a bitchy teardown that was designed to harm and humiliate in equal measures. Any restaurant that was even a hairline fracture away from perfection was ripped to shreds with merciless precision. The paper had been unsuccessfully sued seven times and successfully just the once. His editor and the bean counters were happy with those odds.
He pulled up the thesaurus and searched for another word for disgusting, eventually settling for sordid. With the final alterations made, Zachery stood and moved away from his home office and into the kitchen. He had a bottle of 2009 Grosset Chardonnay chilling in the fridge and he pulled the expensive bottle out in to the evening light.
His apartment was plush and luxurious. He came from a long line of family wealth and he had earned his money the old fashioned way - he’d inherited it. He lived alone through choice. As a man in his early forties he was entirely too set in his ways for someone else to accept, and far too arrogant to consider anything as ghastly as compromise. He was gay and male company selections for the night were never in short supply to the erudite bachelor.
He took the glass of wine and a Pierre Marcolini's Christmas shell praline. The wine was a fruity peach and the chocolate complemented the taste as he allowed small slithers of the praline to mingle with the Chardonnay. He considered his palate to be his crowning glory and he had to exercise his talent often and carefully. He sat in a high backed handmade leather armchair that was positioned for its views out of his apartment’s bay window; views that loomed out across the city’s horizon view.
He was sinking into himself when his warm calming haze was shattered by the ringing of the telephone. Cursing the influence of modern technology he snatched up the handset.
“What?” He snapped down the line.
“Is this Zachery Carmine?” a hushed man’s voice asked.
“Yes”
“Also known as Ezra Geeks?”
Warning signals went off in Zachery’s mind like a flare screaming across the night sky. “Who is this?” He demanded.
“Oh just a fan Mr. Carmine, or do you prefer Mr. Geeks?”
“Look I don’t know where you are getting your information from, but I’m afraid that you have been grossly misled. I know nothing of this Geeks fellow I can assure you.”
“Oh you
are
Ezra Geeks alright sir, and I have something that you will be very interested in. The pot of gold at the end of your rainbow I’ll wager,” the man said cryptically.
“I really don’t have time for your games my good man.” Zachery said dismissively, “Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“DON’T YOU DARE CUT ME OFF!” The man suddenly screamed, “I have what you are seeking,” he continued more calmly, “I have perfection on a plate, a dish so exquisite that you will die in rapture.”
Zachery felt intrigued despite himself, “Do you know how many times I have been told such tales?”
“But you will always see for yourself, won’t you Mr. Carmine? Yours is a never ending quest, is it not? A path to which you can never turn back.”
“And what exactly is the name of this restaurant may I ask?” Zachery hated the small slither of interest in his voice.
“Oh there’s no restaurant, no café, no hotel, no establishment that you would ever recognise.”
The small slither of interest mushroomed as the man spoke so enigmatically and Zachery felt his curiosity rise further.
“So what is it that you are offering exactly?” He couldn’t help but ask.
“I can take you to taste just what your heart has desired all these years. I can give you what you want more than anything else.”
“And what is that?”
“Why, I can give you heaven Mr. Carmine, for a small finder’s fee of course.”
“Of course.”
“Are you interested?”
“I’m still here aren’t I? So you give me the address of this place and if I like what I find we can discuss your finder’s fee,” Zachery snapped impatiently.
“Oh, I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work like that. This is a fluid situation and I can’t give you any address until the very last minute.”
“What the hell is this place?”
“It’s all part of the charm Mr. Carmine, all part of the secret,” the man giggled annoyingly. “Are you interested?”
Zachery wanted to tell the man to go to hell, but something had intrigued him nevertheless. “Alright, we can play it your way.”
“Good Mr. Carmine, I will be in touch.”
With that the man was gone and Zachery was left to ponder.
----------
It was over two weeks later and Zachery had begun to forget about the strange conversation. He had once again immersed himself in the best that the city depressingly had to offer; over-priced repetitive fare that his columns were following along similar paths. Everything began to feel trapped in a continuous loop that was making him dizzy and dazed. He longed for something new, anything to shake his world up. Late one Tuesday evening he got his wish when the phone rang again.
“Mr. Geeks?” the mysterious man asked.
“I thought you called me Mr. Carmine?” Zachery replied.
“Not when you’re working Mr. Geeks.”
Zachery’s heart took a flutter, “Tonight? He asked, wearily looking at his expensive Cartier watch that shone and told him it was 1:15am. “You want me to go out tonight, or rather this morning?”
“Hey, time waits for no man Mr. Geeks,” the man laughed.
“OK, where do I go?”
“Jot this down, 13 Abberline Terrace, it’s down near the docks over on Fairfax, you can’t miss it.”
“And who do I ask for?”
“Baby there ain’t no maitre d where you’re going,” the man laughed before hanging up.
Zachery stared at the handset, pondering. He knew where Fairfax was, and it wasn’t a pretty place to find yourself after dark. On the other hand, he was so terribly bored with his current day to day life; perhaps a little excitement was just what the doctor ordered. He quickly decided and grabbed his leather jacket from the closet to wear against the cold night. Not being a fool, he removed his watch and his two expensive glittering rings that would no doubt draw unwanted attention amongst the local inhabitants. He headed out of the warm apartment and into the cold night for whatever lay ahead.
The taxi driver didn’t want to go anywhere near the docks until a fifty pound note was pressed into his hand; after that his greed overtook his fear.
Zachery had more than one moment of worry as the city darkened the further they drove as bright glassy buildings gave way to dereliction and abandonment. Zachery stared out of the taxi’s window as the night somehow grew darker around him.
“This is as close as I go buddy,” the driver said nervously as he pulled to the curb.
“Now wait a minute, I paid you to take me to this address.” Zachery motioned to the piece of paper that he had written on.
“Look, you just head through there,” the driver pointed to the remnants of a burned out warehouse, “The address you want is on the other side, but if I were you I’d keep my ass in this cab and just go home.”
“Well now it’s a good job that you aren’t me, otherwise you wouldn’t be driving a shitty taxi at the arse end of the day,” Zachery said as he skipped out of the passenger door.
The taxi squealed away from the curb in anger and Zachery watched it go with some trepidation as he looked around his surroundings. There was a severe absence of lights in any of the buildings; every window looked to be glassless and every doorway devoid of a door. Zachery drew up his not inconsiderable courage and headed through the warehouse. The stench of decay was everywhere and his delicately honed senses recoiled at the invasion. He moved quickly without stealth, sacrificing possible detection for speed. There were traces of the living here and there; a burned out fire pit, empty food cans and moldy mattresses. He was soon through the warehouse and out onto the far side of the street. He crept back into the shadows as he viewed the scene.
There was a light glowing from a food truck with a raised open side panel. Two metallic barrels were alight either side of the truck illuminating the gathered crowd. Even from this distance Zachery could feel waves of desperation flowing from the crowd. Figures were dancing from foot to foot in eagerness and excitement, but all seemed strangely well behaved. Zachery sighed in disbelief.
Was he really standing in filthy water, crouching in the shadows like a rat for some bloody food truck hotdog vender?
Figuring what the hell, as he was already here he walked out and crossed the road towards the queuing crowd. The food truck was a long faded blue vehicle. It had a high rounded top and Zachery couldn’t spot any kind of badge or insignia to identify the truck. As he moved around to where the crowds were standing he could see that the side of the truck was hoisted up with collapsible arms on either side to hold the flap open. Inside the truck were two middle aged people; one man and one woman, both wore pristine white aprons and surprisingly for Zachery, both wore covering hygiene hats. The clientele seemed to be a strange mixture of smart professionals and indigents, however, all seemed to wear the same expression of desperate hunger. A shoving match suddenly broke out between a woman dressed head to toe in exquisitely tailored business attire and a filthy bum wearing rags. The woman was tall and with an athletic build that seemed to more than make up for her natural gender when facing off against the skin and bones of the transient.
“Enough,” the man serving inside the food truck commanded.
Whatever the beef between the two struggling patrons, it was apparently making them deaf. The man in the truck suddenly pulled back from his serving duties and began lowering the side panel to close up shop. A desperate, almost pitiful wail rose up from the gathered crowd and the two struggling combatants turned with horror painted on their faces.
“Noooo,” the woman moaned.
“Please,” the bum begged.
Both of them ceased their disagreement immediately and stood like naughty children with hands clasped in front of them and heads bowed.
“That’s better,” the man in the truck said and raised the panel fully open again.
Zachery joined the rear of the queue and waited patiently as they moved forward slowly. He strained to see to the front, to see just what was being served that was causing such drooling faces. But all he could see were yellow polystyrene containers being handed carefully to the customers. As he drew closer he realised the strangest thing - everyone was paying different amounts. The better dressed were handing over fistfuls of lush green notes, whilst the more financially challenged were passing over filthy grubby handfuls of chinking silver and bronze coins. His interest was at an all-time high as he finally reached the front to find himself standing before the female server. She looked around her late fifties; her face was round and plump with a cheerful maternal smile and a figure beneath to match. Her hair that poked out from under her protective hat was a snowy white as were her eyebrows. The man merrily working away beside her was of a similar age and build. He wore a matching outfit and his meaty forearms were exposed as his shirtsleeves were rolled up. His plump and round face was wearing a matching happy expression and his eyebrows were the same snowy white as his wife’s. He wore a neatly trimmed snowy beard over his cheerful grin and hummed as he flipped dark colored patties.
A large wide griddle sizzled and spat behind the woman running the length of the truck. Zachery was about to demand what the hell they were frying in filthy grease when the aroma caught his nose. His mouth began to water involuntarily at the delicious smell; despite the hour his stomach rumbled like thunder in anticipation.
“Well now, we’ve got a newcomer Harold,” the woman said, greeting Zachery and talking to her husband at the same time.
“A newcomer eh Boo,” the man said, addressing what Zachery assumed was his wife. “Well we welcome all here my friend,” the man said talking to Zachery.
“So um, what is it that you serve here exactly?” Zachery asked curiously, as he could not see a menu or price list anywhere on the truck.
“Only the very best,” Harold smiled disarmingly, “Isn’t that right Boo?”
“Oh yes dear,” Boo replied, “Only the very best.”